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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28820445">snuff chip</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/herdemonlover/pseuds/herdemonlover'>herdemonlover</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Cyberpunk 2077 (Video Game)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Braindance Filming Gone Wrong, Dubious Consent, F/M, Gangbang, Repaying Debt, Sexual Coercion</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 11:48:28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>8,506</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28820445</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/herdemonlover/pseuds/herdemonlover</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The market for exotic and dangerous braindances is endlessly hungry – and you could use the few extra eddies. </p><p>What starts as a simple drop-off deal in Maelstrom territory turns into something a lot more than you bargained for. Porn with sheer plot, purely an excuse for a cyberpsycho gangbang, dubious consent all around. Let’s just say if you have a thing for feeling overwhelmed by chrome, this might be for you.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Dum Dum/Reader, Dum Dum/You, Maelstrom Gang/Reader, Maelstrom Gang/You</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>112</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>snuff chip</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Hello, my name is K and I've been fantasizing about a Maelstrom gangbang for (x) weeks since Cyberpunk's release. </p><p>This definitely has shades of non-consent/coercion, so I would definitely recommend a skip if those topics are not your kit.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>-</p><p>And they came to Jesus and saw the demon-possessed man, the one who had had the legion, sitting there, clothed and in his right mind, and they were afraid. Mark 5:15.</p><p>-</p><p>The problem begins where it always begins: money, or a lack thereof.</p><p>Debt was easy to rack up in Night City; with rent roaring up into the thousands of eddies each month and a lack of employment anywhere outside a dollhouse or ‘dorpher den, it was surprising you had managed to last this long at all without a negative number in your chip balance. For a long time, you had lived as honorable a life as you could live in the city of chrome and sin – circumstances had been kind enough where you lacked the desperation of those in the underbelly, enough to keep you honest and working hard.</p><p>This month, however, you learned that circumstances here were never allowed to be kind for long.</p><p>First you needed a few mods for a heart problem, which crept up on your savings account and bled it half-dry before you could blink. Then your apartment sold out to EBM, turning you out onto the streets to find a new place that wouldn’t result in a midnight robbery once a week. By the time you managed to find one, it cost double what you could afford each month – but it was the only choice you had if you wanted to stay in the area. Throw in your recent stretch of unemployment, and you had the perfect stew of desperation and determination that led you to the gutter where you are today.</p><p>
  <em>Braindance Fantasy Studios. Where your best (and worst) fantasies come to life. </em>
</p><p>You had come to the agency after a solid week of weighing your options. Unlike some of the more “official” studios in the city, this one had a reputation – not necessarily a good one, but at least better than some nobody with zero credentials and a hackjob recording box. You could get paid a month’s rent for just a few minutes of risky business, from small-time pickpocketing to diving headfirst into the ocean; as long as you recorded it, they always paid something out.</p><p>You had also heard that they gave a little bonus for people willing to go the extra mile. You had never considered yourself that type, but… desperation and determination. They make monsters of us all.</p><p>The setting: BDFS center of operations, early one Friday morning. You’re sitting in an office that looks straight out of the 2030s, complete with yellowing posters and scribbled-on ads decorating the walls in a collage of fuck-all. You have been waiting here to meet an agent, who would screen your application and set you up with a fitting gig. At least, that’s what you’d been told on the phone. The reality would likely be less glamorous.</p><p>The lady behind the desk does not deserve the honor of being called an agent of anything. She smokes her cigarettes by the pack, has red hair that’s trying its best to look real (despite the obvious synthplugs showing at the base of her scalp), and has a permanent frown on her face as she scrolls through your application.</p><p>“Alright. Your medical history checks out. Work history, too. No serious infractions, no misdemeanors, no run-ins with authorities. By our standards, you’re practically a saint.”</p><p>She snuffs out the stub of her latest cigarette and immediately pulls a new one from her breast pocket, flicking open the tip of her thumb to light it up.</p><p>“Anyway, we can move on to the good stuff. Any of our open scenarios jumping out at you, honey?”</p><p>You had reviewed the list of possible “jobs” before coming in; their website had provided a weighty selection. A lot of them involved explicit debauchery—and while you knew such things must pay an absolute chip-ton, you weren’t sure you were quite <em>that</em> desperate yet. No, instead you had picked one of the tamer options.</p><p>“The drug deal,” you say. “With the gang, or whatever. I think I can do that.”</p><p>The agent flicks the cherry off her cigarette, missing her ashtray by two inches. “Any reason why you’d pick that over the rest?”</p><p>You shrug, answering honestly. “I’ve never bought hardcore drugs before. And the ad said you’d pay extra if you do something for the first time. Extra for capturing a real rush.”</p><p>She leans forward, eyes squinting at you as if to get a read on your response. The cigarette cherry has now left a solid ring of burnt desk beneath it.</p><p>“You ain’t no joytoy, are you?”</p><p>“No.”</p><p>“But you’re not a prude, either?”</p><p>“No, I’ve… done things.” You keep your answer purposefully vague. She doesn’t need to know about your personal life, at least not in this case. “I’ve definitely avoided any gang stuff, so you’ll get the real deal on those emotions. And…” You find a way to word this so you don’t sound pathetic. “I’ve mostly kept to myself since I came to Night City, so I’ll probably be fresh to wherever you send me.”</p><p>“That is what we like to hear,” she says, nodding. “You’d be surprised how well-worn some of the sad fucks who show up here can be. Done everything under the sun. They act like getting shot is as normal as getting some teppanyaki down the street. That’s why we usually have to boost everything in post.”</p><p>You’ve been told that there are editors who can enhance emotions in a braindance, to make the most apathetic of performers a little more believable. Without them, the business would soon run out of content; if only fresh, pure virgins were able to produce good BDs, the pool would dry up within a week. But there was still a hungry market for people who were truly experiencing things for the first time, to give out that rush of unfiltered adrenaline.</p><p>After a moment of silence, she speaks.</p><p>“Okay. Hang on a minute. I need to make a few calls.”</p><p>The agent stands up and shuffles out of the room, leaving you alone with your thoughts. You scan the walls, hoping for something interesting enough to keep your attention until she comes back, but in vain – nothing but old cyberporn ads and the occasional employee of the month ribbon. The braindance studio seems designed to be as bland as possible, at least on the admin side. You suppose that’s a side effect of being a leading producer of thrills and chills: a craving for normalcy at the office.</p><p>Your mind wanders to the concept of doing a drug deal. You’d read enough screamsheets to know what drugs were “in” these days – ‘dorph, blue glass, smash, the works. You definitely knew enough to stay away from them, since they all had side effects that ranged from shitty to life-ruining. But you wouldn’t even be doing any drugs for this, right? Just buying some. If it was as simple as walking up and exchanging a credchip, you think that’s in your wheelhouse. And if the thought of it right now was getting you all nervous… you can imagine the BD that comes out of it would be quality.</p><p>As soon as you begin to imagine the credchip leaving your hand, the agent walks back in.</p><p>“Alright. Job is yours.”</p><p>You let out a breath that you feel like you’ve been holding for weeks. “Great. Thank you.”</p><p>“Before you get too excited, let me at least lay down the details. Don’t want you signing up for anything more than you bargained for.”</p><p>A marked change has come over the agent’s personality. It’s as if she knows that she’s come across something valuable. You would be flattered, if she wasn’t tying your worth to being believably terrified during a legit drug deal.</p><p>“The job goes down in Watson, in the All Foods plant up by the north side. Maelstrom territory. They know you’re coming. We always set up the deal in advance, so that you don’t have to do any fast talking. You’ll be able to improvise a bit, if you want, but the overall delivery can be clean and fast.”</p><p>This sounds like the beginning of a crime vid, you think to yourself. Unconsciously you lean forward, antsy to hear more. “What’s the deal for?”</p><p>“Black lace. Two kilos of it. They’re in tablets, which should make it a lot easier to carry out inconspicuously, in case any badges walk by as you leave.”</p><p><em>Badges?</em> you think to yourself. The last thing you want is police on your ass while you’re trying to avoid a life of actual crime. “Does that happen a lot?”</p><p>“Rarely. That’s a benefit of setting the deal up in advance—the gang can be on alert and clear out the area before you get there. Plus, badges are pretty kind to people like you, first-timer risking your life for a BD. They might let you off with a warning, if you pass them the goods and promise not to do it again.”</p><p>If Night City had a monopoly on anything, it was corruption at all levels.</p><p>The agent comes around the side of the desk, holding a tablet in her hands. She passes it over to you; as you grab it, you see a bulleted list in glowing green letters peeking from between your fingers.  </p><p>“This is your price offer sheet. We price all possible actions out based on each job, so what’s on here is non-negotiable, but generous. And exhaustive. You can pick and choose any combo in the moment, so don’t worry about figuring that out now. Let me know if you have any questions.”</p><p>You look down at the screen and begin scrolling.</p><p>
  <strong>Do not complete exchange / converse for 5 minutes / leave without violence - $300. </strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>Do not complete exchange / converse for 10 minutes / leave without violence - $500.</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>Do not complete exchange / converse for 15+ minutes / leave without violence - $700, plus an additional $50 per minute. </strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>Do not complete exchange / leave with violence - $1000 base price, bonuses based on wounds experienced.</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>Wound rates - $50 per bruise, $75 per cut (non-lethal), $250 per head injury, $6000 per bullet hole—</strong>
</p><p>Your eyes widen, and you don’t quite find the ability to keep a look of fear from kitting its way onto your face. “That’s, uh, a lot of gore on that list.”</p><p>She glances over, noting where you’re at on the screen. “Keep scrolling. The normal completion rates are further down. We have to put all the gory stuff in there, just in case. But it usually never happens, unless you bring some real heat to the game.”</p><p>Swallowing your favorite expletive, you scroll on past the rest of the wound list, making sure to go a little cross-eyed so you can’t read the worst of the worst near the bottom. Finally, you reach the next list that details the prices for a successful job.</p><p>
  <strong>Complete exchange / converse for 5 minutes - $500.</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>Complete exchange / converse for 10 minutes - $700.</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>Complete exchange / converse for 15+ minutes - $1000, plus an additional $50 per minute.</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>Complete exchange / verbal altercation - $1000.</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>Complete exchange / physical altercation - $1500 (see previous guidelines for wound rates).</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>Complete exchange / sexual activity - $5000.</strong>
</p><p>
  <em>Wait a hot nanosec… $5000?</em>
</p><p>You keep reading, your heart suddenly picking up speed in your chest.</p><p>
  <strong>Complete exchange with gang / niche sexual activity - $7500 base price, to increase based on <span class="u">attached pricing chart</span>.</strong>
</p><p>Before realizing what you were doing, you click the link to the attached pricing chart. The grid that pops up before your eyes has one column full of absolute depravities, and another column of increasing payments. The items near the bottom of the list have accompanying prices in the tens of thousands.</p><p>“There’s… almost as much creativity for sex acts as there is for the wounds list,” you say, trying to sound casual.</p><p>The agent waves a hand dismissively. “We like to cater to all types. And you’re allowed to play it by ear, you know. In fact, we encourage it. You never quite know what you’re comfortable with until the moment it’s happening.” She smiles, a sickeningly knowing one. “You can always walk in there, finish the deal, then walk out and make a quick eddie. Or you can pick one you find cute for a quick round, and make ten times as much. All up to you. We don’t judge.”</p><p>Her words hang in the air, and even though they were delivered in the most saccharine way possible, they are persuasive enough to make you think about it. She was right—the base price of the deal would be enough to give you a little extra pocket money, at least until you manage to get back on your feet. There was no question now that you wouldn’t be taking the job.</p><p>But… $5000 would be rent for almost a whole year, and a little more would help you score a new operating system and some wheels.</p><p>
  <em>Wait a tic, what are you thinking? Focus on the base job – you aren’t doing the rest. </em>
</p><p>Another question pops into your head. “What safety precautions do I get?”</p><p>The agent frowns. “Well, that’s where things get tricky. But we’ll do our best.”</p><p>She walks back over to her side of the desk, opening a drawer near the bottom that clatters as she slides it out. She continues talking as she digs around. “Usually places like that don’t like you walking in with a lot of iron. Depending on who’s there, they might take it as a challenge, and we really like to avoid violence for first timers like you. But at least I can give you this…”</p><p>She straightens back up; in her hand is a small silver cylinder, with a bright yellow button at the very top.</p><p>“Miniature EMP. These guys are a few scrap short of straight-up cyberpsychosis, so while this normally wouldn’t do a lot to a more organic crowd, it’ll be enough to take a few of them down.”</p><p>Next, she twists the very bottom of the tube, where a small silver light begins to blink.</p><p>“And this is your distress GPS. You activate it by twisting this piece, or by shooting off the EMP. If you do, I’ll send in a few of our insurance squad to get you out as clean as they can. They won’t be too fast, though, so you’ll need to book it.”</p><p>She tosses the EMP over to you; you catch it and quickly tuck it into your pocket. It’s a small comfort, but it’s better than nothing.</p><p>“So what do you say?” she asks. Her third cigarette is perched between her fingers, as if she’s waiting to light it until you answer.</p><p><em>The base price is enough to keep you going until next month. You don’t need to do anything more</em>.</p><p>You inhale, steady yourself, and nod.</p><p>“I’m in.”</p><p>After a handshake and a digisignature, the deal is sealed. You’re halfway through collecting your things and heading out the door when the agent stops you one last time, giving a quick scan of you from head to toe.</p><p>“One final piece of advice,” she says. “Try to look the part. You’re giving off a real ‘narc with an EMP tucked in their pocket’ kind of vibe. Which you are, you know, but still. If any dancer looks down, they’ll get immersion break instantly.”</p><p>“But I…” <em>How do you even word this?</em> “I don’t have any… drug dealing clothes.”</p><p>The agent sighs. “Look, just go downstairs and check in wardrobe. They’ll have something.” As you walk out the door, she calls out behind you. “And whatever you do, for all the chips in the world, do NOT say shit like ‘drug dealing clothes’ once you’re actually on the job!”</p><p>-</p><p>Two days, a wardrobe change, and a lot of mental preparation later, you take a long cab ride up to the north side.</p><p>You’d done some research before the big scene. At first, you’d thought that a little knowledge about the Maelstrom gang would make you feel more comfortable—but after reading article after article about how they liked to fuck with random passerby by shoving servos into their eyesockets and…other places, you quickly clicked away before you could chicken out. Besides, your agent had been reassuring: no one from her studio had been hurt in a deal with these guys before, unless they were really asking for it. You would just have to take her word.  </p><p>Exiting the cab, you take a minute to press ‘record’ on the BD program that you installed that morning and finish prepping yourself to look the part. The wardrobe guy at the studio had been nice, but not necessarily a font of options. You have definitely spent too much time thinking about what the average person wears to a drug deal, because in your opinion you looked more likely to pop pills in the back of some corpo asshole’s limousine than rub cyberelbows with the local gang. In the end, you’d been given a black leather dress, sheer thigh-high tights, and boots with a practical lift in the heel—"in case running becomes priority,” the guy had said, with a weirdly knowing smile on his face.</p><p>The exterior of the plant is large and imposing. You’d read that it had been a meat packing plant back in the day, before the local chromeheads had cleared it out and made it a base. You also read that police had tried and failed several times to raid the area. Another charming anecdote that fills you with confidence.  </p><p>You listen to the cab screech its way down the street as it leaves. No going back. For comfort, you press a hand to the front of your dress, feeling at the EMP that you’ve tucked inside your bra. You wanted it within reach, but also somewhere no one might see it. The credchip for the deal could stay in your dress pocket—the EMP stays tucked away until you really needed it.</p><p>Taking one last deep breath, you walk up to the door and press a finger onto the intercom.</p><p>“Hello. I’m here for the drug deal.”</p><p>You hear laughter burst out on the other end. It sounds like two, maybe three people. It takes a moment for them to calm, but when they do, only one voice answers.</p><p>“Got any iron on you?”</p><p>You recognize that as slang for if you have a weapon.</p><p>“Nope, none,” you respond, doing your best to avoid any hinting at the panic button in your bra. “Weapon free, that’s me.”</p><p>“Come on in, then.”</p><p>The doors begin to shift open with a loud grinding sound. The hallway that appears is dark, and before you know it, you kick one foot in front of the other and walk inside.</p><p>Room after room of impersonal steel, lit low by blue fluorescent lights that cast the factory in an eerie glow. It didn’t look lived in, it looked survived in—as if the people who slept there only did so because they were forced to by their biology. It was a wonderland of broken or half-drunk bottles, dirty bedrolls and tattered screamsheets. A path had not been created by design as much as by necessity through the hallways, shoving the junk to either side to allow passage deeper into the factory.</p><p>As you continue walking you realize with sudden clarity that you are not alone. In the corners of the room are floating lights, and if you squint you can make out a person behind each of them. You knew that the agent had told you they were cyberfreaks, but seeing the lineup of ghosts in your periphery with optic implants really sells the story home: these were <em>hardcore</em> cyberfreaks, the kind you only see in flicks or on the front page of the news.</p><p>Someone calls out from a high balcony. “Up the elevator!”</p><p>At the end of the expansive room is an old lift, the kind that had probably been used for cargo back when this place was an actual working factory. Trying to ignore the lights that are all turned your way, you push forward, entering the elevator and smacking the button with the side of your hand.</p><p>Crrrreeeeeaaaak. The elevator is filled with trash. The journey is labored. Once it stops moving, it hangs there for an uncomfortable minute, motionless. You start to feel yourself getting anxious. <em>Why is this taking so long? Am I stuck in here? Should I try to go back down, or…</em></p><p>Just as you turn to hit the button once more, the elevator doors fly open. Seven bright lights are trained on you from the moment you step out, and once your eyes adjust, you realize they are all attached to the forehead of the same man.</p><p>“You the one that Val sent?” he asks, his voice modded low and scratchy.</p><p>It takes you a moment to remember that Val is the name of your agent. “Yes. Yes, that’s me.”</p><p>“Well, come on in. Take a seat.”</p><p>He steps back, gesturing to a red leather couch that looks like it’s seen better days. For a moment, you feel a bit of apprehension about sitting on it – there are a few stains on the seat that you’d have to consciously avoid. But sitting meant more time talking, and you remembered that each second got you a couple extra bonus eddies. So you do as he asks, settling onto the arm of the couch, where the least amount of filth has collected.</p><p>The man takes a seat on the shipping container in front of you. You notice that he’s the only one in short range; the others in the room are keeping their distance around the edge of the room. You take a quick inventory of each of them, trying to get a sense of your surroundings in the dim light. One man is standing near the elevator, his foot propped up on the grate as he cleans his pistol with a dirty rag. Two are leaning up against the back wall, smoking something too far away for you to ID. On the far end of another couch is a man who has the entire lower half of his face removed and replaced with a chrome jaw, and it’s terrifying to look at, so you stop.</p><p>You turn back to the man in front of you, who seems to have been waiting on you to finish your scan. You wonder if he suspects you’re recording, seeing as you’re spending so much time looking at things. But you suppose that’s what regular drug dealers do in the same situation, scope out their surroundings, so you bury the worry and push forward.</p><p>“You the boss here?” you ask, trying to sound casual, like this was something you do on a regular basis.</p><p>“Nah, just subbing in while he’s out on some old fashioned R&amp;P in Heywood,” he replies. “You can call me Dum Dum.”</p><p>Dum Dum. People were really getting desperate for handles these days.</p><p>“Like the lollipop?”</p><p>“No, like being stupid.” His optics whir down onto you, an audible clicking sound as they refocus. “It’s, I dunno, supposed to be ironic, since I’m the only tech hookup with half a brain around here.”</p><p>You were finding it difficult to keep eye contact – the harsh glow of his headlights makes spot dance in your eyes every time you look at them for longer than a second. You try to find something else on him that you can look at instead, but from his neck down you get nothing but bare skin stretched over firm muscle and brutal strips of chrome before you reach the low-slung band of his pants.</p><p>“Staring is rude,” he says.</p><p><em>Shit</em>. You quickly look back up. “Sorry. I’m just not used to dealing with, um.”</p><p>“Dealing with what?”</p><p>“People that are… so enhanced.”</p><p>His laugh is close to a bark; you recognize it as one of the chorus from the intercom earlier. “No need to fuck around, sweetheart. I know I’m kitted up to filth. Got mods in places you’d never even imagine.”</p><p>Your mind conjures up a series of increasingly graphic images before you can get a lid on it.</p><p>“Got any silver yourself?” he asks. Silver is the polite way of asking a lady if she’s got any hardware; it nearly makes you snort, hearing it come out of his mouth.</p><p>“Not too much. The usual kit for civvies. Synth hair. Gen one optical scanner. A few heart plugins.”</p><p>“Boring,” he says simply. “You sure you aren’t looking for something fresh?”</p><p>“Not in the market, but thanks.”</p><p>He shrugs. “Suit yourself. Just saying, I know a great guy. The fucking Picasso of Night City. Did almost half the work you see in this room.”</p><p>This is a good conversion, you think to yourself. Not in content, but in length. You have definitely been here for longer than five minutes, and the eddie counter is racking up in the back of your brain. It’s almost giving you a high, knowing that this jackhole running his mouth is making half your rent for each minute he goes on.</p><p>“Anyway,” he says, “you think I’m wild, you should see what that fucker’s got in him.”</p><p>The man with the metal jaw looks up from his place on the couch. He’s somewhere around six foot five, with a shaved head and eyes that are pure black even across the scleras. He has the thickest arms you have ever seen on something still partially organic – but look again, and you notice the seams that run down each side of his outer forearms, the telltale signal of mantisblade enhancement.</p><p>“Wow.” You’re genuinely surprised. Up until now, you had assumed that these boosters had been plugging in whatever mods they came across on the street into their sockets. Mantisblades, however, were high-end.  “Those must have cost a lot.”</p><p>“Well, when you keep Night City high, you get a good cut of the profit.” Dum Dum smiles. “Speaking of which. I think you’ve got something for us.”</p><p>The shift into business comes a bit quicker than you expected; you see the eddie counter vanish in a puff of smoke. He reaches behind him and pulls up a thick black briefcase, setting it down on the table beside him. You imagine that must be the drugs you’re here to pick up.</p><p>“Can you show me?” you ask.</p><p>“Of course,” he says.</p><p><em>Well, this is going to be easier than I thought</em>, you think to yourself.</p><p>“But first,” and in a fluid motion he leans over and puts his entire hand down the front of your dress, fingers expertly fishing out the EMP that you had tucked between your breasts.</p><p>His hand is shockingly cold, so cold that for a moment you freeze before you can react. The next thing you know, you’ve leapt off the arm of the couch, stepping backwards to get out of his reach.</p><p>“Give that back.” You’re trying your best to keep your voice steady.</p><p>“No,” he replies. “Our deal, our rules. No weapons on your end, no weapons on ours.”</p><p>“How did you even—,”</p><p>“I’m looking at you with seven optic scanners, sweetheart. Count ‘em.” As if to emphasize his point, he taps his temple; the top two lights flash white.   </p><p>He tosses the EMP off to the man near the doorway, who catches it in a metal hand. You track it with your eyes as he slides it into his back pocket, making a note of which one has it and where. You can’t imagine how you’d even be able to get it back from him, but there could still be a chance.</p><p>The sudden loss of your escape hatch is leaning you against the edge of panic. He must notice, because he motions back to the couch.</p><p>“Relax. I just don’t deal with any fucker who ain’t playing on the same level as us. Calm your tits.”</p><p>Tentatively, you sit back down. If there is any other thing you could do at this point, you can’t think of it.</p><p>“There you go,” he says. “No worries.”</p><p>You remember the credchip in your dress pocket. Hastily, you fish it out and hold it up, hoping that this small bump in the road will not lead to a full-on wreck.</p><p>“There’s a grand loaded onto this chop,” you tell him. “Take it, and we can call this square.”</p><p>“A <em>grand</em>?”</p><p>The room erupts into laughter. Dum Dum smacks his own thigh with his metal hand, and before you can question how much that might have hurt, he cuts in. “A grand barely covers the case we put it in. Your boss seriously sent you in with this shitjack for a whole two kilos?”</p><p>“Um, yes.” Was a thousand eddies not enough for drugs? Can you even estimate how much they’re worth? But why would your agent even send you in here, if a thousand wasn’t enough? Hopefully these guys weren’t just fucking with you to get a better price.</p><p>“If it’s a thousand, then it’s no deal,” Dum Dum says.</p><p>“Okay. Sorry for the misunderstanding.” You move to rise up from the arm of the couch, but before you can his hand is planted firmly on your chest, pushing you back down.</p><p>“Not how this plays out,” he says. “See, we like to send people back missing a part or two. Just as a little reminder not to fuck with us.”</p><p>Your blood runs cold. “Um, what?”</p><p>“You heard me.”</p><p>You feel the hairs on your arm stand on end. Your legs twitch, as if to twist away from him and make a run for the elevator – but then you remember that they’ve got one of these fuckers standing right beside it, right in front of the call button. You’d need to figure out a way to drop him, or get into his pocket, steal back the EMP, before anyone can move, before you lose a limb, or something, or—</p><p>Dum Dum lifts off the cargo crate, leans over you. His muscled, cyber-torn chest is at eye level; you look up, imagining his mangled flesh becoming yours and adding to your panic.</p><p>“Unless…” He draws in close, mouth inches away from your face, “you can think of some other way to square the rest.”</p><p>You can feel his breath on your forehead, and it is the first reminder that the thing in front of you is something human, underneath all the kit and lights and clicking of gears, there is something that breathes under there. You feel it condensing on your bare skin, hot and slick.</p><p>A number floats by in your memory. <em>Sexual activity - $5000.</em></p><p>“Just you?” you ask hesitantly.</p><p>“As a start,” he says, the bottom half of his face splitting into a grin. There is something to be said about a smile that literally cannot reach one’s eyes – it looks alien, false. “We can see how good you are, knock a couple eddies off for each repeat performance.”</p><p>
  <em>Rent paid for a whole month. Not getting mutilated by a group of psychotic ‘dorphers. Rent paid for a whole month. Not getting mutilated by a group of psychotic ‘dorphers. Rent paid for many months, if you do more... and not dying, not dying, not—</em>
</p><p>“Fine, do whatever you want, just…” You put the chip back in your pocket. “No gore. Leave me in one piece.”</p><p>“Well,” he says, “can’t promise anything,” and then he was on you.</p><p>[Your mind will not remember the facts and figures as the situation progresses, but the agent has calculated them for you, and we can now review them as they occur.]</p><p>
  <em>[Nudity - $250.]</em>
</p><p>His hand hooks into the strap of your dress, pulling it down over your shoulder, letting his metal fingers meet your skin for the first time. When they press into you it is with a rigid amount of force, as if he has no real sense of how much pressure he’s applying, or maybe that he’s too excited to care.</p><p>Eyes closed. You feel his breath on your neck now, the gentle tickle of an inhale. Suddenly, he licks a line from your collarbone up to your jaw, where his teeth graze over your skin, biting gently. Then, not so gently. Then, hard enough to make you gasp out loud. Then travelling on, until finally you can sense him lining up and his lips pressing onto yours.</p><p>Even with your eyelids closed you can still see the lights. Blinded twice, you open your mouth and let in his tongue, dizzy as you recognize the taste of blood (yours?) on his teeth. You don’t have time to register if this means he’s left a mark on your neck – you’re too busy dealing with the slide of his tongue over yours, the hot, wet moment of not being able to breathe. Eventually his teeth get involved in this, too,  biting sharply down onto your lower lip until you feel a split form in it.</p><p>You open your eyes to the sight of that inhuman smile, trying your best not to hiss in pain. “One piece,” you repeat, not as firmly as you’d like.</p><p>“Well, then, start distracting me,” he says.</p><p>“How?” you ask.</p><p>He grabs your hand and guides it up to the waist of his black cargo pants. “It doesn’t bite. I promise.” You don’t believe him.</p><p>Tentatively, you slide your hand into his pants and wrap your hand around… something. Under your fingers, it feels partly flesh, partly cold as steel. You look down, hoping to be able to see what it looks like, to make some sense of it –  but whatever it is, it’s hidden by the darkness of the room and the waistband of his pants. Instead you try to figure it out by touch.</p><p>You twist your fingers up and down, feeling the streaks of metal run smoothly under your strokes. When you feel flesh, you squeeze harder, hoping that you’re doing this right. By the sounds this guy starts making in the back of his throat, you might be.</p><p>After a few more pumps of your wrist, Dum Dum pushes you off and grabs you by the hips, lifting you into his lap as he settles back onto the shipping container. Your legs straddle his on both sides, giving you better purchase to put your hand back down his pants and continue jacking him off. His head goes from thrown back in lazy enjoyment to back at the crook of your neck, sucking at the spot just below your ear.</p><p>Suddenly, you feel the familiar chill of his fingers in your upper thigh, then higher, sliding up under your dress and pressing between your legs.</p><p> He hears your sharp intake of breath, chuckles to himself. “What, not interested in that?”</p><p>“I…” You surprise yourself when you don’t answer ‘no’ right away—but that may be because you don’t think it would even matter if you did.</p><p>Taking your lack of protest as an answer, he pulls at the last layer of fabric separating your skin from his metal. “We’re putting some chrome in you tonight, one way or another. This way is just more fun.” He laughs into your neck. “For now.”</p><p>[<em>Fingering (receiving) - $250</em>]</p><p>The first metal finger slides into you with a little resistance. It is thick, icy. Surprisingly dexterous, by the way you feel it curling inside you. Before you can get too comfortable with the feeling, a second one pushes in, scissoring in and out with a mechanical whir that you can barely hear as he works the joints. It feels… surprisingly good. Your legs shake with sudden need, pushing down onto the feeling, hand stalling its actions.</p><p>His other hand shoots out to the base of your throat, squeezing roughly. You can feel something like static underneath his palm, sparking against your skin.</p><p>“Didn’t say you could stop,” he says, and swiftly you start back at pumping him again, trying to avoid distraction from those chrome fingers, dragging in and out of you. The position is uncomfortable, his cock just out of reach, but he doesn’t seem to mind. In fact, he almost seems to like watching you try to jack him off as he does this to you.</p><p>By the time you catch yourself moaning slightly as he presses his fingers into you again, he stops. “Clothes off, now.”</p><p>You quickly pull your hand out of his pants and hike your dress over your shoulders, throwing it to the floor. The freezing dead air of the room hits your skin, makes your neck tingle with cold from the stripes he’d licked there earlier. He doesn’t give you a chance to get goosebumps. Wordlessly, he forces you onto the ground, kneeling between his legs.</p><p>“Come on,” he says, nodding downwards. “Take it out.”</p><p>You reach up, unzipping his pants and watching as his cock finally springs free. It’s not like anything you’ve ever seen before – you’d known plenty of guys who got questionable enhancements from a ripperdoc, to make them longer or thicker, but this wasn’t that. Instead it was a regular-sized cock, kitted to high hell and back with metal studs, slivers of chrome on each side of the shaft, and a seam running straight down the middle.</p><p>“You ever have chrome cock before?” he asks.</p><p>Conscious that you are staring, you shake your head no.</p><p>“Well, I think you’re gonna fucking love it. Roc, get over here.”</p><p>
  <em>[Sexual acts with multiple partners - $1000 per person.]</em>
</p><p>Before you can register what’s just been said, the man with the metal jaw rises up from his spot on the far couch. He kneels down behind you, nudging your bare legs open. You feel something cold and blunt press up against your entrance.</p><p>“Wait—,” you say, but before another sound can come out of your mouth, he pistons his hips and pushes inside.</p><p>The shock of the low temperature—the way he feels blunt and unyielding—whatever he’s put in you must be pure metal. It’s enough to make your mind cut out as you try to adjust to the feeling of it inside you, but before you can get too comfortable he pulls back and presses in again, and out and in, making you feel that same, agonizing stretch over and over until it feels like it’s going to tear you in half.</p><p>Your head lolls forward, with Dum Dum catching you by your hair before you go face-first into the shipping container. He angles you up to where his cock is now right in front of your mouth, the head just beyond your lips. You can barely hear the whistle of a piston as it splits open at the middle, revealing a glowing white cable running all the way down its core.</p><p>“Open up,” he hisses, his distorted voice now even lower. Cautiously, you open your mouth and let your tongue run across the tip. The taste of warm flesh and metallic steel right up against each other are almost enough to make you pull back, but as the psycho behind you pushes into you again, you moan and pitch forward, taking the rest of the cock into your mouth.</p><p>“Fucking perfect, take them both.” You feel your hair being twisted in his metal fingers, catching in between the joints. When he pulls the pain is light, a warning for if you try to move away, so you don’t. Instead you work your jaw open as far as it can go, feeling the thrum of something electric sliding over your tongue. The pace of being fucked lets you bob your head in time, suck him in a good rhythm.</p><p>[<em>Oral sex - $100 per minute.</em>]</p><p>Wordlessly, the man with the chrome jaw pulls back.</p><p>“Did… did you cum?” you ask over your shoulder. There is no response.</p><p>“That’s not how it works,” Dum Dum says. “Anyway. Keep going.”</p><p>Mind free from the relentless pounding between your legs, you can focus on the cock in your mouth. He’s stopped letting you do the work entirely, instead sliding it past your lips and back out again at whatever rhythm he feels like. Every now and then he hits a bad angle and metal clinks on your teeth; it doesn’t seem to hurt him, since he does it a few times, almost as if he likes seeing you wince.</p><p>“Let’s try something,” he says, “just don’t fight it, okay, just let me—,” and he pushes his cock into your throat. You gag instantly, but he pushes your head down into it, and after the first few gags you realize you can still breathe through your nose if you force it. Dazedly you remember how his cock had that weird split down the middle, and wonder if that’s making this easier or harder.</p><p>Suddenly, he laughs, and you feel something wet and hot hit the back of your throat. You screw your eyes up, trying to get it down before you can taste anything.</p><p>[<em>Swallowing - $300</em>.]</p><p>“Not bad,” you hear him hum from above you. Look up, and his jaw is in a slack smile, much less of the threatening ‘dorphed-up psycho he’d been five minutes ago.</p><p>“Are we… are we good, then?” you ask.</p><p>The room is silent for a moment. Then you hear the man by the elevator clear his throat.</p><p>“I think that was worth maybe, uh, a quarter of what you owe,” Dum Dum says. “More or less.”</p><p>Your head is swimming from the oxygen you’ve only just been able to reach. <em>A quarter?</em></p><p>“How much more will I have to do to square the rest?” you ask, breathless.</p><p>“Well, how much more do you think you can take?”</p><p>Flash forward, and you’re sprawled out on your back on the crate, supported by eight hands as the gang fucks you apart.</p><p>The man who had been standing guard by the door has you pinned underneath him, your legs open as far as they can go as he thrusts between them. You have a cock in each hand – the one on your right belongs to the thin, muscle-roped ‘dorpher who had been smoking in the back, his own hand grabbing at your chest and twisting– the one on your left is his friend, and it’s covered in metal rings that glow bright yellow and pulse every time you squeeze it. Not about to let your mouth go to waste, the man with the chrome jaw has taken a spot right by your head, letting his metal cock fill up your mouth, muffling the moans and whines and sobs that you can’t hold in.  </p><p>At some point, thoughts had given way to instincts, to doing the first thing that came to mind without questioning it or trying to escape. They put a cock near your mouth – you open up. One found its way between your legs – you spread them wider. You had lost count of how many ways each of them had been inside you by now, and feeling fuck-drunk and stupid and terrified, you did not care to know.</p><p>“Fuck,” the guy on your left hisses, “fuck, open up—” and he takes his cock and angles it so that he cums on your mouth, half of it spilling across your cheek, the other half getting in and pushed further down your throat by the metal cock still fucking your face.</p><p>[<em>Facial - $500</em>.]</p><p>A few seconds later, you feel the guy you’re jacking off on the right shoot cum between your fingers.  </p><p>[<em>Ejaculation on other body parts - $250 per instance</em>.]</p><p>The guy pounding you sees you get hit with both loads at the same time, and it seems to nearly drive him over the edge himself; a few more long, deep strokes, and he’s pulling out and dripping down your thighs.</p><p>[<em>Creampie - $1000</em>.]</p><p>“Alright, alright, let me fucking finish this off,” you hear Dum Dum say, pushing his way back into the group and taking the spot between your legs. The others, sated, fall back and let him take the last round.</p><p>He looks down at you, naked and striped in white. “You look like a real chrome whore,” he comments.</p><p>“Am I done?” you ask.</p><p>“Not yet,” he says, and hoisting one of your legs over his shoulder, you feel his cock push inside you. At this point you can’t do anything but throw your head back, hold on to the sides of the shipping container, and take it.</p><p>“Got one last trick up my sleeve,” he laughs into your neck, and you feel the cock inside you pulse, then whir as something near the base begins to start moving, and thrumming, and—</p><p>Oh fuck, it <em>vibrates</em>.</p><p>Of course it fucking vibrates, why would it not? This is the future that the men of the great ages had dreamed of, where anything is possible, and it has all led up to this moment, of being fucked by a glowing vibrating cyberdick that felt better than anything you had ever put inside yourself. Before you could even help yourself, you wrap your legs around his waist, drawing it in as far as it can go, wanting to feel that hard rumble all the way in the center of you.</p><p>Both of his hands come up around your neck and squeeze, and you swear you can feel a spark of static shoot from his palms into your skin.</p><p>“Beg for it, before I choke the fucking fuck out of you.”</p><p>You try to say something, anything, but the moment you do the grip around your neck becomes even tighter, the moans catching in your throat just beneath the pressure of his fingers. Taking the attempt as an answer, he thrusts into you again, hips working like a piston. It is too much, it is too much, and then it is just enough—</p><p>You can only mouth “I’m going to,” and you realize you already are.</p><p>“That’s right,” he says as he feels you clench around him, “fucking lose it, you chrome-chasing slut.”</p><p>He pushes in deep, as deep as he can go, letting you feel the whirring against that most sensitive spot as seven lights dance in your eyes. It feels like you’re coming for an eternity, each spasm echoed by another, the thrum of his cock not giving you a moment to recover.</p><p>[<em>Authentic orgasm - $2000</em>.]</p><p>“Fucking fantastic,” you hear him say.</p><p>And the hands around your neck spark again, and before you realize what is happening a shock runs through your body, sharp and painful, and then everything is black.</p><p>-</p><p>You open your eyes to a light shining directly into them.</p><p>For a moment, you think it’s the psycho – but after blinking, you suddenly see past the light, and into the face of someone dressed in EMT gear.</p><p>A voice near you speaks up. “Not bad for your first job.”</p><p>You sit up, head spinning, as you recognize the agent is sitting next to you. You’re on the concrete outside the factory; somehow, your dress is back on, and you can feel the pressure of the EMP between your breasts as if it had always been there. There’s also the large briefcase that you’d been shown earlier, the one that was supposed to have the drugs, tucked neatly under your arm.</p><p>“Before we move any further,” the agent says, “here’s your total.”</p><p>She flashes a data screen at you, a number swimming into your vision. You don’t believe it.</p><p>“And I’ll need to add on an additional $500.”</p><p>“For what?”</p><p>“Our wound chart includes taser shocks.”</p><p>Taser shock. So that’s what that painful static around your neck had been, right as he’d... or you'd...</p><p>“Am I hurt?” you ask.</p><p>The paramedic, now checking your pulse, answers. “No, not too extensively. Just had your port shocked into stasis, then woke back up here with minimal bruising and shallow cuts to certain areas. I’ve already bandaged a few of the ones that were still bleeding.”</p><p>“Great.” You take a moment to look down at your body, or at least what you can see out of your dress. Some bruises in odd patterns down your legs. A suspicious shiny spot on your forearm. You suppose this could’ve been worse.</p><p>“Here’s your drugs.” You push over the case in the agent’s direction, arm feeling limp and weak.</p><p>“Oh honey,” the agent says. Before you can ask what she means, she opens up the case, revealing the inside to be empty.</p><p>The metaphorical gears in your mind begin to grind. The fact that you were given a credchip with such a low amount on it. The fact that they didn’t blow your head off the moment they found the EMP. The fact that they immediately suggested an… alternate option of payment. “Fuck almighty, don’t tell me this was all a set-up.”</p><p>“Of course it was,” she replies nonchalantly. “We do this to everyone on their first time. We warn them in advance you’re filming, and we let them fuck around a bit, see how far they can push the new blood. And you… you let yourself get pushed a lot further than most.”</p><p>“Fuck you.”</p><p>“Strong words, for someone that just got paid a pile of eddies,” she says, closing the briefcase with a sharp snap. “Paycheck like that only comes once in a lifetime, sweetheart. You’ll probably never see a number this big again, unless you plan to work your way through every gang in night city.” She smirks, then holds up the small chip in her hand. “For you.”</p><p>“What’s that?”</p><p>“Your copy. Unedited, of course, since I just pulled it out of your port. It’s on the house.”</p><p>You shake your head. “Don’t need it.”</p><p>“Stuff it. My source says you had a hell of a time, despite the set-up.”</p><p>She slips the chip into your pocket as the EMT finishes checking your pulse. Nothing must be off, because he starts packing his equipment into his bag.</p><p>“He also says to come back anytime you want another round. This time with less bullshit up front.” She stands up, brushing off the dirt from her pant legs. “We’ve called you a taxi. It’ll be here in five. If you want to work with us again, give us a call.”</p><p>With a breezy wave, she and the EMT climb into their nearby parked car and pull off, leaving you alone on the concrete.</p><p>The factory looms behind you, almost staring down at you in judgement. This had not gone how you’d expected it. You hadn’t expected to go that far. You hadn’t expected to never need to pay rent for another two years. You hadn’t expected to enjoy any of it. You hadn’t expected…</p><p>You glance at the empty briefcase, and a funny thought comes into your mind.</p><p>
  <em>I guess… I still technically have never done a real drug deal.</em>
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  <em>[Repeat performance - $?]</em>
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